Choose a heap of words and make a form
The words may not be right but such is charm
Once you’ve made a heap of stones, of brick
You can shape it with your poetics
Treat it like a sculptress does her clay
Hit it, mould it, make it go your way
But, oh, beneath its hidden shape and show
The poem knows such life you’ll never know.
Get it in your arms and so you twist
A pile of soft cement with woman’s wrist
Kick it, scratch it, bite it, sip its dew
The poem is having its own way with you.
As we wrestle in our clay stained cloth
We feel the rising of our hidden wrath.
So at the end, we mould it with our souls
The poem itself has shaped the dual goal.
Thus master, mistress none can take the name.
For inner demons, gods have died in vain
How my heart sings 